…bygones

All of this talk, this ‘yadda yadda yadda’ about being a writer, and today, finally, I got the opportunity.

I’ll save you the suspense and say, that God, yes, I took it; don’t look at me like that!

As many of you know, I’ve been job hunting for a while now, and today for some reason I broke my own rule about not looking at jobs on a particular website (which I shall not name) as it has a reputation (with me anyway) for being a trolling site for marketing ploys, meanness and sometimes, absolute gash.

I saw an ad which caught my attention, I applied for it, and low and behold, not only is the company legit, but they’ve hired me on the spot. Smelling salts, at one point, would not have been totally inappropriate.

So, technically, I’m a writer. I write, and I am paid for it, and even though it’s only a month-long contract, I’m quite happy with it. Not only do I get to write; but I can also do it in my slippers because, hey, there’s no office hours.

Too good to be true? Maybe. Or maybe, Sunshine, I’m just one of the lucky ones.

I got my rejection letter today.

I really had high hopes that it was sewn up. I was very confident, maybe even too confident. But it wasn’t meant to be, either because I wasn’t a right fit for the company, or perhaps they had seen someone who had a bit more experience than me.

In any case, I’ve spent the day convincing myself that I didn’t really want the job anyway, that the company is full of fools and that there is a better job out there which is more suited to me.

So, a day of moping and looking like my poor hyacinth here; and tomorrow, I’ll get back on the horse, come out with guns blazing and ride victorious. And maybe from now on, I’ll not use so many metaphors in one post.

But no promises.

I’ve decided to enter into the Portrait category of a photography competition (with no real view of winning, I’m not that good yet). So, after texting a few friends, I finally have a handful of models willing to pose for me.

KittyKate is my first victim. I took her to the Botanic Gardens yesterday and snapped away a roll of film. While I recognise that I have a lot to work on as far as composition and situation; I think I’m getting a bit better.

But I’d like some opinions, if you don’t mind lending me a bit of time. You can either comment here, on my Flickr, or email me. I look forward to reading what you think!

Kate

Day 4 of my holiday was uneventful; but in the grand scheme of things, it gave me an opportunity to realise a few things.

First thing this morning, over my cup of coffee, I decided that I could definately be a woman of leisure.

By the time I got to the bottom of the cup, I had decided that I was bored and was definately not the type of person who doesn’t need a job.

However, by this evening, I was filling my time taking silly photographs, and testing my poor wee Canon Powershot to its maximum potential.

Here’s a couple of pictures I came up with:

Now that the Bosses are back and things are pretty much back to normal, I’ve decided to take a holiday of my own. I’m not going anywhere in particular, but it’s going to be a busy week socially (Colinopolous gets married on Thursday!!!) so I figured I’d just take the entire week off.

Yesterday was the first official day of my holiday. Kev and I went with a handful of friends to Portobello Beach for Chris’s b-day. The weather was absolutely perfect; sunny but not too hot; brief moments of relief from a couple of obliging clouds.

We played frisbee in our bare feet; fine, warm sand sifting through our toes. We ran into the surf, we enjoyed an almost endless buffet of barbeque, and nibbled on perfectly sweetened strawberries stewing in balsamic sauce.

Perfect.

The best part was, I left my phone at home (by accident), but I didn’t care. And I didn’t have a watch on me, and I didn’t care about that either. It was nice to just exist and play and be.

And I got dirty as well, which I haven’t done since I was a kid. I don’t really like getting dirty anymore; I don’t like having anything under my fingernails, much less a million grains of dirty sand. But yesterday, I relished plunging my hands into the warm sand, feeling the cooler sand underneath.

Excellent day. That’s what I wanted for my holiday. Now if I could have 6 more days of something similar.

I shot the morning in the back
with my red wings on,
told the Sun he’d better go back down.
If I can find a book of matches,
I’m gonna burn this hotel down
– Tom Waits

I need some icing for this cake I’m making.
– Me

I’m not a fan of complaining and bitching unabashedly in my journal here (I saw you, you and YOU roll your eyes. Shut up.) however, today, I’m just going to give in to my complete desparation and frustration and just let loose.

The day started out great. Great mood. Great coffee. Decent Cheerios. Singing the shower, the whole bit.

Met Last Years Girl for lunch, which was lovely. And I was very pleased to see her again for the first time in absolute yonks.

Everything was grand. And then it swooshed downhill like a sadistic rollercoaster ride through hell.

(Yes, I realise I’m being overdramatic, but I never indulge in dramatics, so just bear with me.)

I went to my mobile phone provider because, honestly, my phone is a piece of poo. This is the second handset I’ve had of this particular model, because the first one just decided it couldn’t be bothered dialing, or texting. All it really was capable of, in the end, was telling the right time. Ace.

So, here I am with my new handset, which has decided that it, too, cannot be bothered performing the functions for which it was designed, and worse than that, has acquired a sadistic sense of artificial intelligence and decided to end my calls and reboot itself spontaneously.

Alas, my mobile phone provider has decided they can do nothing about any of this because my contract isn’t due to expire until December. They are quite happy for me to not have a working phone, yet still pay for it, for the next five or so months. They won’t even let me downgrade to an older model so that at least I can have a phone which works.

Evil bastards.

Feeling frustrated and a little blue, I decided to waltz into Snappy Snaps and pick up the roll of film I’d given them to develop on Saturday. Surely that will cheer me up.

Now, the last time I gave them a roll to develop, they said the roll was blank. I thought maybe this had been a mistake on my part, or that there had been something wrong with the roll itself; so I dropped this one off knowing that I’d loaded the film correctly, and had exposed each frame, etc.

Nope. It’s blank.
[The tech at Snappy Snaps suggested that I wasn't loading the film correctly. I had to struggle to keep my composure at such an absurd suggestion.]

All of this means that my camera is… well…fucked (for lack of a more technical term for it).

My baby. She’s never let me down. She’s never given me a shoddy print. She’s my joy. How could she do this to me? Especially when I’ve now got the confidence to enter into a photography competition?

So, I’ve learned in one day that two of my essential components of my livelihood have let me down.

As I trudged home, listening to the husky crooning of Mr Tom Waits, I thought to myself, ‘Ok, Fate. This is it.’ And took off my white glove, smacked Fate in the puss, tossed the glove on the ground and challenged him/it to a dual.

Is that all you’ve got? Surely, there must be a third disappointment today.

It’s red, and beautiful, and not £500. It just ticks all the boxes.

When I started to become seriously interested in photography, after one Christmas when I received a grey and pink Polaroid instant, I began scouring garage sales and flea markets for a Rollei, which I considered to be one of the greatest and most definitive cameras.

Of course, I knew nothing about cameras, but I worshipped the Rollei, and once, thinking I could get a cheap one online, discovered that a Rollei is the sort of camera which gets more expensive the older it gets.

Yesterday, l bought a copy of Black and White Photography magazine (becuase I like to torture myself, you see); and I was well-impressed. Most photography magazines are pushing for everyone to get a digital and dispense with the old-fashioned film malarky. This magazine, however, is actually having a competition on printing, which, Ohhhh….yeah….that’s so cool.

Anyhow, while I’ve been feeling pretty blue lately about not being able to afford to get my Canon EOS 450D anytime soon, I read my B&W Photography, and felt much better about the world.

And now I have a new object of desire, much more within reach; an attainable goal, and yes, a photography project in mind.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about my writing; it appears to me that one must write about what they know, or at least have the patience for thorough research.

As I have none of the latter, the former eludes me. I’ve done so many different things, but is there one thing about which I know enough about to create an interesting read?

I expanded on that thought to entertain the idea of writing my autobiography. How egotistical of me, I know. But it goes beyond ego.

I have always believed that every life is a story. This is one of the reasons that I write this blog (however sporadically). There are numerous readers out there, lurking, who keep tabs on my ‘adventures’, and though I may never know who they are, I know you’re there. Is my blog about ego? Definately not. I don’t advertise it, I don’t claim to be the most interesting person on the blogosphere, nor to I believe I’m leading the most interesting life ever.

A few years ago, I was living with Miss Love, and her friend, a film-maker, came to stay with us to document Miss Love’s life in a few days…day to day tasks, how she got to where she is now, etc. I remember thinking at the time that if this girl-film-maker were forced to follow me around for four days, she’d be bored out of her skull.

But do I think my life as a whole is interesting? Indeed. When I search through my personal history, I’ve experienced a lot. And when my ex-aunt asked me how I got to be so wise, I replied (quite stoically, I remember, or perhaps it was just condescension); ‘I’ve lived a long life’. I was 25.

Some questions emerge: Do I think my life is more interesting than others? No, of course not. But I look around at all these movies coming out now about the lives of famous people: Capote, Johnny Cash, Ali, Ray Charles; and I wonder, ‘Would we care about these lives if they hadn’t been famous?’

Of course, every other movies is trip through the life of someone we don’t know, an exploration of a fictional character as they experience some sort of life-changing transition, something defining. Mostly the ‘cinderella’ stories, the ‘bad guy turns good’, etc. But what about real lives? Real and honest journeys which every day people face?

It’s often perplexed me how many people there are in the world. Just sitting on the subway train, I see the young girl sitting across from me and I wonder, ‘Where did she come from? And where is she going?’

Perhaps the autobiography isn’t for me. But maybe the idea of it has spawned a new idea: the idea that every life is interesting in its own way. And out there are readers who will be interested, perplexed, or maybe find comfort in similarity.

Every life is important; even those which aren’t crying out for someone to tell their story.

And I’d like to be the storyteller.

So, I was lying in bed this morning, planning out what I was going to wear, for after all, it is St Patrick’s day today.

I decided on my green flecked blouse, with the little tie, a green knit vest and little green skirt. By the time I got up, I had nixed the idea of a skirt, and of course, the green knit vest. No need to overdo it, right?

And now here I am, a full 11 hours later and I realise that I didn’t need to plan out an outfit for wearing green today.

My little green nose ring could have taken care of it all by its wee self.